


Confessional

by notyourparadigm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, No Rape Though, Ramsay is his own warning, Reference to sexual things, Torture, but mainly torture, reference to murder as well but I don't think it counts since it is ASoIaF after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-15 11:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11230341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: Pre-Red Wedding, post-Sack of Winterfell, book universe.In one of their "sessions" together, Ramsay asks Reek why the Turncloack burned Winterfell. Reek never knows what answer Ramsay is looking for, but ends up revealing much more about the Turncloaks motives and feelings than he ever wanted to-- but not without some coercion from Ramsay. After all, a naked man has few secrets...





	Confessional

Counting didn’t help. 

If anything, counting made it worse— assigning a value to the torment, a pressing reminder of just how many more were to come. But counting was all that Theon Greyjoy could do to remind himself that he wasn’t experiencing the same searing lash of the whip again and again in his head, that he wasn’t permanently stuck in the same moment of pain. It was the only way he could reassure himself that time was progressing, that at some point, Ramsay would have to stop. Ten more lashes, twenty more lashes, fifty more lashes— no matter how many times they went through the routine, Ramsay had always granted him the kindness of stopping. 

One-and-twenty. 

Two-and-twenty. 

Three-and-twenty.

Theon’s body jerked into a momentary seizure as Ramsay stayed his whip, the ceiling-strung iron chains digging even deeper into the frayed and bruised mess of skin that remained of his wrists. He gasped feebly for air, incapable of breathing properly as he coughed and heaved against the remnants of his screams. For a moment, he almost believed that perhaps the gods were good, and Ramsay had already had enough of their time together, as he heard the distinct _thud_ of his whip falling to the floor.

His beliefs were quickly corrected when Ramsay took it upon himself to inspect his handiwork, drawing his fingers across the fresh, bloody welts that decorated Theon’s back, prompting a violent flinch with each stroke of his hand. He only began to chuckle once he started to press more forcefully on the wounds, sliding his nails in and along the wet grooves, taking a moment to enjoy the long, shaky whimper that escaped Theon’s throat.

“Oh, what a pity… all the lashes from last time opened up again. And just as they were starting to heal, too. My poor Reek. You must have a hard time sleeping with all of these…” He paused in thought, fingering the wounds more gently, “…little presents.”

Ramsay trailed his hand across Theon’s skin as he circled around him, his prisoner turning his head down and away to avoid looking at the gleeful pride in his eyes. 

“But you never thanked me for these gifts, Reek. That’s just poor manners.”

Theon struggled to form his reply, voice still thin from screaming. “I-I-I’m sorry… th… thank you, my lord…”

That earned him a couple of pats on the cheek. “That’s my Reek. Always remember your courtesies.” 

Theon had to force his mind away from Ramsay— anything but Ramsay. Anything but those pale eyes, and that lop-sided, childish grin; anything but those thick lips. _Like two worms fucking._ For some reason, Theon latched onto the feeling of the blood running down his back, focusing on the long, trailing streams, hot and wet as they dripped onto his heels. He considered how much blood he had lost, how much he could afford to lose, if maybe this time he could manage to lose enough… but, no, that wasn’t a possibility. Ramsay would never let that happen. He’d never allow his Reek to leave him so easily. 

“Tell me, Reek, _do_ you sleep well?”

There was no point in lying. Theon was always punished when he lied. “…no, my lord.”

Ramsay shook his head disappointedly. “You really are quite the ingrate. I give you food, drink, shelter, even presents, yet still you refuse to sleep? What next must I do, tell you a story before bed?”

“No, th-that won’t be necessary, m—”

Theon hadn’t noticed the knife Ramsay had drawn, but he certainly felt it as it slashed across his back, running perpendicular across the wounds from the lashing. It took him by such surprise that he hadn’t even the chance to yell; he only choked on his failing breath.

“Oh, but I think it is. You see, there’s this one story — I think you’ll really like it — about a stupid boy by the name of Theon Turncloak. Have you ever heard of him?”

 _That’s what they call me now. That’s all I’ll ever be remembered as._ But even thinking such things wrought Theon’s stomach with fear. If Ramsay heard— _I… I have to remember. I’m not the Turncloak._ “No, milord.”

“Silly Reek, _everyone_ knows of Theon Turncloak!” He passed the knife back and forth between his hands, tiny red beads flying off to stain the silken pink sleeves of his doublet. “He’s the horrible monster who betrayed the trust of everyone he met. He grew up with the Starks in Winterfell, but when they went off to war, the greedy boy claimed it for himself. He killed and burned the two youngest Stark boys, then put the rest of the city to the torch for good measure.”

That was the story that all of Westeros believed. That was the story as the Maesters would tell it. That was the story as Ramsay always told him. But it hadn’t been the story that Theon knew, the one that he had first confessed to Ramsay when asked to retell his capture of Winterfell. He had told him the truth, and it had cost him two of his teeth. _It isn’t the truth anymore,_ he had to remind himself, running his tongue along the tender, empty gums. _No one would believe my story even if I told it. Everyone believes Bran and Rickon to be dead, and by my hand. That is the truth now._

“Hmm? Something the matter, Reek? Did I tell the story wrong?”

The blood in Theon’s ears pounded loudly, urging him to answer and answer quickly. Ramsay never liked to be kept waiting. But what answer could he give that would please him? Lying always came at a price, but Theon never knew which ‘truth’ to tell. He always seemed to choose wrong. “I… I don’t know, my lord. I haven’t heard this story before.”

Ramsay’s knife flashed again, this time noting Theon’s mistake diagonally from shoulder to hip. This time Theon also had the chance to cry out, writhing and jerking against the iron shackles. This time Ramsay’s thick lips didn’t crack a smile.

“I think you’re lying to me. I think you _have_ heard this story before. You know who Theon Turncloak is, don’t you?”

Theon swallowed once, twice. “… I… I do, my lord.”

“And who is he?”

 _Me. I am the Turncloak._ He had once been a kraken, taken from the sea and raised amongst the wolves _…_ no, not even that. He was an abomination, some horrid creature stuck between wolf and kraken, fit neither for the sea nor the north. _But fit well enough for a grave._

No, _no_ , he wasn’t the Turncloak. The Turncloak was dead. He had to remember. _Reek_. _I must be Reek._

“He was a… a stupid boy. A stupid boy who made all the wrong decisions.”

“He was. He did. That’s not all.” 

“He… he betrayed the Starks.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes. “I already know that. Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me why the Turncloak turned his cloak.” 

He had asked Theon that question a thousand times. Theon had answered it a thousand different ways. And a thousand times Ramsay had found his answer unsatisfying. Theon couldn’t even find the hope to try. “I’m… not sure, my lord.”

Theon knew how Ramsay would respond. He braced himself for the knife, but it didn’t make its sting any sweeter. 

“You really must stop lying to me,” Ramsay sighed, “I want to know _why_.”

Why _had_ he? Theon could scarcely remember. His memories grew blurrier by the day. The ones he once had were twisted and deformed, poisoned by the ones Ramsay had given to him. He feared for the day he would awake to a mind full of false memories, without even the sanity to realize it.

He couldn’t recall a point where he had decided to betray Robb, to betray the Starks — he hadn’t wanted to betray anyone. He had never wanted to be a Turncloak. He had never _chosen_ to be what he was. M _y decisions were made for me, even from the day I was born._

He never chose to be named after a Stark, never decided to be weaker than his brothers and sister, never asked to be mocked by his family. At the same time, he had never wanted to see Rodrick or Maron killed, never wanted be taken away from Pyke. He certainly had never wanted to feel so desperate to return to its dreary shores. 

He had never wanted to fail his men, his fellow ironborn. _Gods, they're all dead_ — and dead because of him. But Mikken, too— he hadn't wanted to see Mikken dead anymore than Red Rolfe or Black Lorren. And that didn't make sense— they were on opposite sides. Theon couldn't feel that way, didn't _want_ to feel that way. Theon didn’t want to kill those miller’s boys, had never wanted to kill Bran or Rickon either, never wanted to see Winterfell put to the torch, to see a true a home as any he had known cast up in flames…

Theon Greyjoy was sobbing. He hadn’t wanted that, either. 

“What’s this? Reek, I never asked you to cry. I asked you a _question_.” But this time, it was Ramsay who was lying. Truly, that was all he ever wanted of Theon — _no, not Theon. Not the Turncloak. I'm not…_

“Th-Theon Turncloak… never... never had a choice.” 

“Ah ha ha, oh, how poetic! Do you really mean to tell me he has no guilt in the matter?”

“No!” Theon spat, wide-eyed, shaking violently. “No, no no… that’s _all_ the Turncloak has… that’s… that’s all he is…” _Theon Turncloak is no man. But neither is Reek._

Ramsay laughed incredulously. “You make it sound as if such a disgusting creature was capable of remorse.”

“I’m s-sorry, my lord—”

“—no, no, _please_ , enlighten me. What on earth could the Turncloak possibly feel? He was just a heartless monster, after all…”

 _Could a heartless man feel this much?_ Theon felt his muscles seizing against him, shoulders aflame and begging for relief. How long had it been since he was strung up? His vision had already begun to dance before him as he blinked, the black pool of thoughtlessness threatening to swallow his mind. A sudden pain clutched at his chest, and he gasped vacantly for air; for a moment he thought he heard the voice of his uncle Aeron, and the wash of brine began to fill his lungs. _Is… is he drowning me? He's… I-I can't breathe, he’s drowning me, he‘s—_

A palm slapped against his cheek, his nostrils flaring full of air. “Oh, come now Reek… you can’t pass out now. We aren’t done yet. You still have to let Ramsay know the _truth_.”

 _Truth?!_ Theon wanted to scream, brain writhing with too many thoughts returning far too quickly, but a throat still gasping for breath. _What truth? The truth is I’m not Reek. And you're not Reek either. I am the Turncloak, and you’re but Roose Bolton’s bastard. Not a lord, not even a man. You’re the one who put Winterfell to the torch. It was your idea to kill the miller’s boys. It was you who flayed the skin from their faces. Everything was you. Everything is your fault. You did it. You did this to me. You did all of this._

But he couldn’t say any of that, not unless he wanted to lose another finger. He wanted to spit in Ramsay’s face, remind him that he was _Theon_ , the last remaining son of Balon Greyjoy, rightful heir to the Iron Islands, and he would never be a thrall to some lowly bastard of the north. But if he did, he’d have to pay for every word– maybe lose an ear or an eye this time. Theon wanted to punch him in the face, to break _his_ nose and a few of _his_ teeth, to cut open that pink, fleshy throat and never have to hear him say the word _Reek_ ever again. 

But instead of doing any of those things, Theon gathered his strength and threw himself against his iron shackles, crying out against the feeling of his shoulders trying to separate from his arms. At least when he was screaming, his mouth couldn’t betray him. When pain saturated his body, it couldn't act against his own will.

For the first time during Theon’s imprisonment, Ramsay seemed surprised. He titled his head and stepped back, as if considering commenting on the sudden change of behaviour. 

 _Soon enough I’ll be doing his job for him,_ Theon thought bitterly, the pain helping to calm his mind. _I can’t tell if he’s amused or insulted…_

Either way, Theon prayed he wouldn’t have to hurt himself again. He suffered enough as it was without having to blame himself for his injuries. And for all he knew, Ramsay might consider it ‘bad behaviour’, although for the moment he seemed to have chosen to ignore it.

“Does this mean you aren’t going to tell me? I thought you trusted me more, Reek. I’m hurt.” Ramsay shook his head, stepping forward with a sullen sigh. He brought the knife to Theon’s face, using the tip of the blade to pull the corner of his mouth open, delicate enough to not break the skin. “I didn't think we'd have to do it this way… it’d pain me so much to have to ruin any more of these pretty white teeth…”

Theon’s heart leapt in his chest, fear taking hold of his tongue. “No! No, please _please_ no, no, I’ll tell you anything, _everything_ —”

His lips peeled back into a smirk. “Go on, then.”

“I–” _No, no, no. Not me. I am not him, not the Turncloak._ “–Theon, he… he wanted to hate the Starks. He… probably did at first. But it was more _fear_ than hate…”

He could still remember the last words his father had said to him before he was shoved off into the hands of Ned Stark’s bannermen:  _‘Remember your true family, boy. These greenlanders will try to make you a wolf, but it’s only your neck they care about. They’re just waiting for the day they’ll have an excuse to chop it off, kill you like they did your brothers. Never forget your brothers.’_

He first met Lord Eddard Stark waiting upon the _Howling Wind,_ one of Robert Baratheon’s docked war galleys. Theon hadn’t been able to meet the man’s stony eyes. Instead, his focus had locked upon the greatsword _Ice,_ borne by one of his faceless, nameless squires. That duty had soon fallen to him; a cruel jape, truly— the boy Theon, tasked to carry the very sword that would behead him should his father step out of line. 

Ramsay Snow pressed the knife against Theon’s throat, words forming on a snarled mouth. “And what did this boy Theon know of true fear?”

“N-nothing, my lord.” _He was a summer child. He could never have imagined… never would have dreamed of such horrors._ But the boy Theon was dead. _I am not the Turncloak._ “He… he had lost that childish fear, in time. Or maybe he just lived with it, sometimes forgetting that it was still there.”

“Are we to weep over this story, Reek? Poor little lordling Theon didn't fit in with the Starks?” Ramsay mocked a frown, dragging his dagger down Theon's side slowly, carving the skin just deep enough for Theon to give a shallow whimper. “Forgive me if I cannot find my tears.”

Theon had found his own easily enough, holding back a ragged sob as the fresh cut stretched and pulled with his suspended arms. How stupid it all sounded now. How petty his worries had been. “I’m sorry m-my story dis...displeases you, my lord.”

“Apologies are useless to me. I still want to hear more.”

Ramsay wouldn’t be satisfied until he told him something new, something that would hurt Theon to admit. But if Theon Greyjoy had been a master of anything, it was burying that which he disliked thinking about. He gave several dry swallows, trying to think of something to tell. He considered inventing a story, something horrible and embarrassing that would be sure to make Ramsay smirk in delight. _Would he be able to tell? If he thinks I'm lying, I’ll be punished… he’ll…_

Theon's chest heaved. “The Starks never wanted him, never wanted any part of him, they always made that clear...” _You don't befriend the livestock you intend to slaughter._ “But... Theon still tried... still hoped that maybe— maybe they would change.” _Nine years he waited for a change of heart that never came._

They might have been a long nine years to have lived in such a chilly household, but he'd have suffered ninety more in place of another moment in the Dreadfort. To think that he once found nothing half as infuriating as the constant dismissal of Lord and Lady Stark, that he once yearned for nothing more than some recognition from those around him. Attention was what he wanted— and now, attention was all that Ramsay ever gave him. Now, Theon wanted nothing more than to fade into obscurity, to be left alone and forgotten, to die as an unremarkable man, ignored and invisible.

“The Starks ignored his entire presence, gave him barely a second thought when mentioned. Even... even if it was hatred, he wanted them to feel _something_ towards him.”

Most often when asked about the Turncloak's feelings, Theon would sputter out some story about proving himself a true ironborn, or explain some hidden hatred and contempt for the Starks, or even try to paint himself as some sort of bloodthirsty madman— it was the first time he had taken such a different approach. All of the other stories interested Ramsay far less than the screams and pleading and sobbing, so often he would tweak with Theon to have his fill of those regardless of his response. But it was different this time— his eyes narrowed upon Theon, looking at him in a new way. As if he was actually some kind of human, not the worthless vermin he had become. Theon found himself absolutely possessed with terror as he saw the look, shaking his head involuntarily and threatening to burst into tears again.

“No, n-no, I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it, I—!”

He half-expected Ramsay to slap him again for his mindless stuttering, but his mouth was instead shut the sudden clasping of a hand against his jaw. Never had Theon seen such a thoughtful expression on the Bastard of Bolton; normally he was relaxed and careless when he played these games, never considering anything his prisoners said. For each moment that he now kept silent, Theon felt his heartbeat grow even more frantic and distorted,

When at last Ramsay spoke, it was but one word. “Interesting...”

Theon's shackles clattered noisily as his arms and shoulders began to shiver more violently. Ramsay's idea of _interesting_ could only mean more suffering for Theon. He fell back again to the feeling of his lashes, of the constant heat that rose from the red, ribboned skin, of the slow, sharp pain that was sewn into each of the raw fissures, weaving over and across each other like he was but a trembling, bloody loom. It was impossible to think about one lash without feeling all of the rest— they twined together like a spiderweb, with every tendril experiencing an echoed tremor for each sting that a single one felt. Theon wondered if Ramsay knew that, if he had whipped enough people to have learned all about the feeling without having ever faced the lash himself. He'd never asked him to describe it, though— merely watching and listening to Theon seemed to be all that Ramsay needed to know.

 _Why must my thoughts always lead to him?_ He rarely saw any form of life down in the Dreadfort's dungeons other than Ramsay; his life would soon be nothing outside of the attention the Bastard of Bolton gave him. The only other things Theon had were his memories from before, the ones Ramsay was taking from him with each day that passed. But even the ones he had managed to keep brought him nothing but pain when recalled. _I've truly lost it all... everything, everyone... soon enough I'll even lose myself to this damned place._

Another wash of tears slipped from Theon's eyes, but he did not have the strength left to sob. Ramsay watched the tiny streams with a child-like interest, raising a thumb to smudge one across Theon's cheek. His skin flinched at the touch.

“I hope you'll believe me when I say I know how you feel.” His voice was unsettlingly soft. He held a small smile, one that could have maybe even been called bittersweet, but Theon could read a very different story in his eyes. Ramsay made certain that he saw it, too, by keeping his head held firmly in place. “Tell me, Reek— which one of the Starks was Theon trying to impress?”

Theon's mouth went dry. He knew exactly where this question lead, and it was not a place he wanted to let Ramsay see, he had to think fast, think of something else to tell him—

“Well, I’d have guessed the honourable Lord Eddard if he was still alive— I knew that the Turncloak had enough father issues that he would’ve personally sucked Lord Stark’s cock if it made him one of his sons. Alas, that fool’s head was already on a spike when Winterfell was stolen… so who was it, I wonder?”

 _Tell him,_ a voice urged. _Tell him and he’ll stop. He’ll know you speak the truth ._

“My guess would he Lady Catelyn. A scared little boy was taken from his mummy… and his new mother never loved him, never counted him amongst the children she fawned and spoiled… so he’d _make_ himself important in her life. Threaten her youngest— now that would get her attention.”

 _No, that’s not true._ Not entirely, at least. Catelyn had never particularly warmed up to Theon, but the same could also be said for Jon Snow. The woman had her own priorities, and they were not easily changed. He certainty had not claimed Winterfell to impress her.

 _Tell him_ , came the voice again. _Tell him and have it over with._

But the thought nearly made him sick. If Ramsay were to learn about it, he would probably do things to Theon that he never wanted to endure. _He will find out eventually. Tell him now and he might reward you. Lie and he might take another finger._

Without realizing it, he was shaking his head. _No, no… he can’t find out… he must never find out. No, he can’t, I can’t…_   “No, no…”

“What does ‘no’ mean, Reek? Not Catelyn?” Ramsay frowned. “Then who?”

The shackles around Theon’s wrists began to slip and twist with his motions, slick from the profuse sweating of his skin. Ramsay had asked him directly now. If he lied he would be punished. _But if I fell the truth, he’ll… he’ll…_

“N-N…No, no n-no…”

His tongue was stuck on the word, and his mind was too scrambled to even think of a different one to say. Ramsay sighed with impatience. 

“Alright, if that’s how you want it to be.”

He removed his hand from Theon’s face. It fell to a different, smaller blade, one with an edge as thin as silk and a bite that was farthest from.

Theon stopped breathing.

Despite knowing he was securely fastened to the ceiling, Theon tried to move away from the silver gleam of the metal. He tried to curl his fingers and toes away from sight, despite knowing that Ramsay could easily pry them open again. He tried to beg for mercy, despite knowing that he had lost his voice in his fear, despite knowing that Ramsay never took out his flaying knife without using it.

But Ramsay did not move for Theon’s fingers, nor for his toes; instead, his free hand braced against Theon’s chest, thumb and forefinger framing his right nipple with the delicacy of a painter about to make his first brushstrokes on a new canvas— although Theon could hardly be considered “unblemished” by any standards.

“It’s not a very useful body part, is it? I don’t think you will miss it much— it’s not as if you have any babes or wenches who need to suck it. It’s really just in the way.”

The blade slid underneath Theon’s skin as easily as ever, loosening a new scream from his throat with a strength he didn’t know he had left in him. With a normal blade, Ramsay would have had to use a sawing motion to separate the flesh from muscle, but with the fine flat of his knife, he was able to draw a clean quarter circle of skin away without so much as a snag. The pain did not stop once he removed the blade from the wound, but it certainly flared anew as he pulled at the loose skin, exposing the pink and red beneath in a impossibly slow motion, stretching and snapping each nerve one by one.

“P-P…Ple- _please-!_ ” Theon wailed and thrashed. “Please, please—!”

“You know I don’t like that word, Reek. I'd much rather know _who_ it was that the Turncloak cared for.”

Theon couldn’t find his thoughts admidst the white sear of agony. He didn’t know. He didn’t know the answer. He couldn’t even remember the question. “I-I-I…! P-Please, I—!”

Ramsay’s hand was a flash of movement, his flaying knife curling back into the newly-made pocket, slicing around the remainder of the circle until Theon’s nipple hung only by a thin, agonized string of skin. Ramsay tugged at it teasingly, his vengeful grin widening with each twitch of Theon’s body.

“ _Tell me!_ If it wasn’t the Tully bitch, then who? Was it the daughter, Sansa? Did the Turncloak want to fuck a Stark, become a part of the family in marriage?”

No, that wasn’t right. Sansa had been pretty enough, and Theon may have more than once thought of her marriage connecting him to the Starks, but she was only a girl, practically an infant when Theon had first arrived. It was hard to recall her as anything but that puffy-cheeked babe he had first met. No, it wasn’t Sansa. That wasn’t right. But what was it? What was the question?

With a short, sharp pull, Ramsay detached the circle of skin. With the sudden taste of blood in his mouth, Theon realized that he must have bitten something. His legs writhed beneath him, but never coherently enough to strike out against Ramsay, mere inches away, idly playing with the detached skin in his hands.

“It was Sansa, wasn’t it? He wanted a piece of Northen cunny all for himself, didn’t he?”

Theon threw his head left and right. “No, no…! N-no, not… not…”

“No? You’re not lying to me, are you Reek?” Ramsay used a thumb to smear one of the thick lines of blood that crept down Theon’s ribs. “Who then? The other Stark bitch is too young. Don’t tell me the Turncloak had a soft spot for Ned Stark’s bastard.”

No, that was wrong too. Theon had misliked Jon Snow almost as much as the bastard had misliked him. _I was awarded the courtesies he was denied, but he had the respect no one would ever give me._ Theon shook his head again. _He’s going to know, he’s going to find out, he’ll––_ his fingers twitched and flinched, even where the bone and joints had been removed. _I can’t… I can’t lie, I can’t let him know, I––_

Ramsay returned a thumb to the fleshless area on his chest, grinding his jaw as if _he_ was the one with a finger burrowed into a bleeding wound. “ _Tell me!_ Who was it? Was it Robb Stark?”

Theon gave a voiceless cry; Ramsay only twisted deeper, until Theon swore he touched bone.

“ _Was it Robb Stark?!”_

White— all he could see was white, growing brighter and brighter as Ramsay pushed his finger in further. Theon’s throat was a grave of screams too weak to be voiced.

He nodded his head.

Ramsay pulled his finger from Theon’s chest, allowing him to at last find the strength to give a hollow whimper. He kept his eyes closed as he hung his head against his heaving chest, unwilling to look at what sort of amusement or satisfaction Ramsay wore, and incapable of looking for the fog of grey and white that flooded his vision.

“Robb Stark, truly? That _is_ a surprise… under all those furs, the Young Wolf is just a pup, after all.”

A dark cloak of noise hung in Theon’s thoughts–– _Benjen._ The name came to him unbidden. _Benjen was the one they called Pup. Robb was called King._

Ramsay must have seen some of the insolence swelling inside of Theon, as he knew to punish him before he cold say anything, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. 

“You did not answer me when I first asked you, Reek. Have you forgotten your obedience already? I shouldn’t have to drag these answers out of you…”

Theon felt the bile churn in his stomach as the shameful realization of what he did slowly sunk into perspective. Ramsay made no effort to hide the amusement in his voice. 

“This time you will answer me immediately. And you will not lie to me.”

He sheathed his knife, but Theon only shuddered more as the bastard leaned in beside his right ear, bracing his head with his left hand. The whisper crawled onto his skin like some sort of vile, writhing insect.

“The Turncloak and Robb were _lovers_ , weren't they?”

Theon choked. Unfortunately, Ramsay was close enough to hear the _‘no’_ he had tried to suppress within the noise. 

His face lit up faster than the wick of a candle as he jerked Theon’s neck back, licking his lips. “He was Robb’s own little whore, wasn’t he? What other reason could the Stark whelp have had for keeping him so close... oh, what his father would’ve thought of him! The rightful heir to Pyke, spreading his legs upon command for his dear King in the North.”

Theon found no words for Ramsay, but a dangerous, fiery growl grew in his throat as he tried to wrench his head free from his grasp. In reward Ramsay let go, striking him again across the face, quickly filling Theon's mouth with blood again. His mind wavered, ears catching but half of Ramsay’s gloating as he coughed out some of the bloody spittle. He had to force himself to not act out again as the bastard chimed in with quip after quip about his and Robb’s relationship, about the Starks raising him as an obedient bedwarmer, about his loyalties lying wherever his cock was warmed.  

His mind sunk away as the pain numbed his limbs, a buzz filling his ears. He sunk away from the japes, falling back into the memories of some of his earliest years in Winterfell, of two young boys tangling together in the corners of the stable, giggling and fooling curiously with each other when no one was watching. He and Robb had never managed anything more than some hesitant touching and a few timid kisses before they had dissolved completely into laughter, punching and insulting each other for not staying serious. But that was something _all_ boys had done in secret, wasn’t it? They had, of course, outgrown such behaviour; they both had come to know that they quite enjoyed the feel and taste of women.

But there had also been the night of Robb’s thirteenth name day feast. They both had been drinking far too much of the red vintage Lord Eddard had brought up for the occasion, and while supposedly stumbling back to their chambers, the two had somehow wound up toppled against an oak tree in the Godswood, Theon determined to prove that he knew how to use his tongue better than Robb did. Jon had showed up at some point, chortling noisily and jeering at them before he vomited on himself and passed out. He had laid face-down there in the leaves for some time, and eventually Robb was compelled to shy away from Theon’s mouth, and untangle his fingers from his hair, muttering something about how they should put the poor bastard in his room and strip off his soiled clothes. They had at least managed the first part by taking one arm each across their shoulders and hobbling together as a horrendously limp six-legged monster – thank the gods Jon’s chambers were one of the lowest in the tower — but they had given up on the undressing part rather quickly, only unfastening Jon’s leather jerkin and removing one of his boots, although later Theon wondered if it hadn’t just fallen off while they were dragging him up the stairs. The next morning the three of them woke together in Jon’s bed sharing the same excruciating headache, much to the annoyance of Maester Luwin and his ever-depleting tonic stores. But while Jon seemed to remember nothing past supper, Robb had grown silent and pink every time Theon happened a glance at him. They had given each other a solemn nod, and never spoken since of what had happened. Whenever Theon recalled the memory it still brought a warm flush to his face, but at the very least he had undoubtedly proved to be the better kisser.

Theon never let himself dwell long on the matter, though. It had mainly been the drink, of course, and Robb had been half a child then. _He’s still half a child, really, and leading his armies to war. I should be there. He needs me. I should be with him._ Children harboured love and affection for others more willingly than they practiced their letters–– they didn’t understand what love was.

Or was it that they understood best of all? In the dark of the Dreadfort’s dungeons, Theon Greyjoy had a hard time remembering. 

But in the white haze of pain, Theon sometimes found his memory all too clear. Twice during his occupation of Winterfell he had dreamed of being abed with Robb Stark, his chest pressed against the northerner’s back without so much as a scrap of fabric between them. 

In the first, he had been pleasuring him softly with his hands— dutifully, although not dispassionately, somehow incapable or unwilling to act upon the ardour he felt rising in his chest and stiffening in his breeches. 

In the second, there was a different stiffness in his hands, as he slid the blade of his own dirk slowly into the base of Robb’s spine, drawing nary a drop of blood, having to hold the eldest Stark child tightly from the front as his body rattled and shook, helpless against death’s embrace.

In both dreams he had cradled his face against Robb’s neck, refusing to look at his actions, tears welling in his eyes as he whispered: _'mercy, mercy, mercy'._ In both dreams, Robb had no words for him, no mutterings of encouragement or noises of enjoyment, no angry swearing or curses of vengeance. And after both dreams, Theon awoke in Lord Eddard’s own chambers, hard and drenched in a feverish sweat, with no choice but to turn Kyra over and fuck her, only to have the images of Robb return to his mind and threaten to make him sick. _I had lost Winterfell even before I took it._

“…not that Robb could ever have loved as disgusting a creature as the Turncloak.”

The phrase was so distorted, Theon would have believed it was his own thoughts were it not for the voice creeping in only from his left ear. Ramsay’s breath was hot and sticky, to the point that it almost felt like blood was condensing onto his skin with each word.

 _But I loved him_. Theon’s entire bodied shivered, but not from the cold air. He could almost see Robb’s reassuring smile, and feel his arms around him in a parting hug from the day he had sent him off to Pyke to treat with his father. The last time he had seen him. _I loved him, and by the Gods what did I do?_

Even if Theon somehow survived the Dreadfort, somehow managed to escape, he knew would never live to see Robb ever smile at him again.

“Now now, don’t cry Reek. There’s no need for tears. I’m here.” Ramsay pressed his lips onto Theon’ trembling neck, wet and cold against his dirty skin. Theon had stopped trying to suppress the violent sobs. “No matter how wretched you smell or look, I’ll always be here. I will never abandon my dear Reek.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic that I started writing YEARS ago, back when the show first had Ramsay tell Theon Robb was dead (i.e. Theon must have told Ramsay at some point that Robb was important to him) as well as a conspicuous missing nipple in the bathing scene.
> 
> Going back and reading / editing / finishing it now, I am super happy with this and only wish I could still write like this... and that this subject matter wasn't so fucked up because I'm really happy with how this turned out and I wish I could show more people. Probably the most proud I have ever been with my writing -- and I finished it too! Double score.
> 
> I work hard to try to keep characters as in-character as possible (of course the Throbb isn't that canon so it's a bit of an exception), but if you have any claims about different things I might have mis-characterized with Ramsay or Theon, let me know. I sorta enjoyed playing at the idea that, to some degree, Ramsay kinda relates to the idea of "acting out for attention" with how he is a complete sadistic bastard, but maybe that is a stretch.


End file.
